Yesterday the RACV finally squeezed me in to their sixty-cars-a-day hailstone damage assessment program. I got off with relatively minor damage, about $2000 worth. I said that as I was paying the excess anyway I wanted my scratches from various pole-wrapping episodes fixed as well. The assessor was a bit dubious at first but suggested I use my 'wiles' on the repairer and tell him that "the boys at the RACV van said you'd look after me." I wonder.

My favourite Christmas sight so far was the elderly woman, embarassed but determined, scalping tickets to Handel's Messiah outside the Melbourne Town Hall on Sunday afternoon.

Another lost weekend but the shopping is done.

Everytime I go into Border's I head for the T section of Fiction hoping to find a new Barbara Trapido and on Saturday I did! Joy to the world but mainly me.
After a couple more bookshops on Sunday I realised how many books I haven't read and am wondering if I'll get through them all before Alzheimer's kicks in. Probably not.

We ran into Petite Soeur at the Cinema on Saturday night, surprisingly dressed in leather. It seems New Boyfriend has a motorbike. Oh hell!!! I remember my mother's dismay at my courtship on the back of Right Foot's motorbike, but I also remember the exhilaration of taking those corners with my face buried in Foot's broad back and the nuisance of wondering what to do with the ruddy helmet when we arrived at our destination ready for a glamorous night out. I bet Petite will think of something.